


young leaves

by ilaeth



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety, Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Depression, Fluff, Loneliness, M/M, Minor Character Death, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:41:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24596929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilaeth/pseuds/ilaeth
Summary: Outside his window Kageyama watches the wind pick up stray leaves to carry to the gutters. His eyes are dry and his tongue feels swollen, heavy, like a strange taste inside his mouth. Little warmth reaches his skin where the sun hits his cheek, seeping through the crack in the curtains.kageyama mourns. hinata aids.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou & Kageyama Tobio, Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio
Kudos: 72





	young leaves

**Author's Note:**

> an impulsive write following the passing of a loved-one i held dear.
> 
> title taken from "young leaves" by attack in black

Outside his window Kageyama watches the wind pick up stray leaves to carry to the gutters. His eyes are dry and his tongue feels swollen, heavy, like a strange taste inside his mouth. Little warmth reaches his skin where the sun hits his cheek, seeping through the crack in the curtains. 

Below, a group of children play hopscotch. One laughs, then trips, and begins crying. From the sidelines a grandparent rushes over to pick up the howling child. Kageyama can see them cooing reassurances even if he can’t hear them, and quite frankly, is glad for it. He averts his gaze from the street back to the empty space of his room, to the clothes tossed over the back of his desk’s chair he has yet to put on, and the polished shoes tucked neatly by his door.

An infinite amount of time passes. When the sun rises higher in the sky and the gentle warmth shifts from his cheek to his forehead Miwa knocks once, then opens his door. She’s dressed in her sunday best with little makeup. “Little bro,” she says, a toothbrush hanging from her mouth, “ten minutes.”

Kageyama offers a small nod, his back turned to her, and she gets the message. The door closes with a clack and he’s left alone with no one but the sun for company. He lingers for a few minutes because he doesn’t know what to do with himself. His body won’t move when he asks it to, and even when it does it’s because he’s forced to dress and he doesn’t want to fight with his mother today. With stiff limbs he pulls on his shirt and buttons it up to the collar. He avoids his own gaze in the mirror on the descent downstairs. At the door he watches Miwa looking at the framed photos they have in the hallway. “Where’s mom?” he asks.

“Kitchen,” she replies; nothing else. Kageyama merely nods. They spend a few moments in silence before Miwa opens the front door and heads down the garden to the car parked in the driveway, head crooked downward to the phone in her hands. He wonders who she’s texting, and if they know she’s returned home from Tokyo for the weekend.

Kageyama waits for their mother, who comes out from an adjoining room with damp eyes.

When she smiles she looks like his grandfather. The crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes deepen, and the soft lines of her smile stretch. “Let’s go, Tobio,” she says, and ushers him with a gentle hand at the base of his back. He merely nods, an outsider in his own body, and exits.

The car ride is spent in silence. Miwa owns a hybrid so the drive is even more quiet than it would be otherwise, and for once Kageyama wishes they were on some form of public transport so they would at least have an excuse not to talk. He avoids their gaze in the rear-view mirror the entire drive and watches the houses on the street shift from one story to bungalows.

Dressed in a soft cotton blue dress their grandmother greets them at the door with a warm smile. Her hair is jet black like his and Miwa’s but her eyes are brown. Inside the warn walls of their tiny home the rooms still have photos of Kazuyo like he’s still here. In the study there’s a small shrine where his mother lays a bouquet of carnations and a kiss to his grandmother’s cheek, and as both he and Miwa prepare dinner they exchange hushed conversations of fond memories. 

They sit at the dinner table with the chair on the furthest empty, and eat a birthday meal in memoriam of the missing guest. Kageyama doesn’t finish his plate.

* * *

He does not sleep. Kageyama comes to school the next day without brushing his hair or packing his bag. He sits through classes with his ear to the table and his elbows around his head, trying to do anything other than focus on the cooling pit of loneliness in his tummy, and come lunchtime he doesn’t even want to stomach food. He sits alone, tucked away in one of the music room’s corners, and rests. He thinks about sunshine in the garden, with Miwa and his grandfather and iced lemonade and volleyball. He thinks about the smell of sunscreen and dusk and the weight of passing a ball back and forth even when the street lamps turn on. He mourns until the bell for dinner ends but he stays even when his lesson starts. A second year opens the door to the practice room, violin in tow.

“I have a lesson in here,” she says, though it comes off more like a suggestion than a statement. She knows she’s walked in on something she doesn’t want to see, and Kageyama doesn’t blame her.

“Sorry,” he says, rising from his crouch against the wall. His cheeks are ruddy and damp and he leaves to find someplace quieter.

Instead of heading back to class he dresses for after-school practice and drills his serves. Most don’t even make it over the net.

By the time the third years begin filtering in he’s worked his way through the ball basket four times, and his palm is two layers of skin down. They pass between them a look of confusion but say nothing, offering small talk to Kageyama which he does not respond to other than the occasional grunt. He doesn’t want to be rude to them.  _ They’re only trying to help, _ he reasons.

Maybe the worst, he thinks, is seeing the smiles shared between a few of his teammates. Hinata grins to Yachi as they share a joke, and Nishinoya is in high spirits, as per usual. He aches to be rid of the loneliness and wishes he could just join in like everyone else.  _ I can’t do that. I’m not like that. _

He busies himself with his laces and tries to forget how sluggish he feels. Kageyama swears that each limb weighs a hundred pounds. Every shift of his neck feels like he’s trying to move something that’s rusted over. There’s a churning in his gut that could be from the lack of food or the dread he feels over something he can’t pinpoint, and with each step he wishes he didn’t have to stand there and be present to do anything more than mourn.

A weight bulldozes into his side as Hinata stumbles over his own feet. “Tsukishima-kun!” he barks, steadying himself on a very still Kageyama as he points a finger to Tsukishima, who stands a few feet away with that shit-eating look he always wears. “Not cool! I was tying my laces!”

“Somebody was daydreaming. I just thought I’d wake them up.”

Kageyama’s fingers tighten around the ball. He thinks he could puncture it if he tried hard enough.

“You look constipated.” Tsukishima coos.

“Stop it,” Daichi scalds, drawing the water bottle from his mouth. Tsukishima leers to his left, unphased by the telling off. “Leave it.”

“I’m just making an observation.” Kageyama’s knuckles turn white where he holds the ball. He clenches until the pads of his fingers burn and his wrists ache. He wants to spike it hard enough that it bursts. He wants to serve the ball into the space between Tsukishima’s eyebrows. “Hello? Are you in there?”

With a snarl Kageyama turns on his heel and spits: “Shut up. Shut  _ up. _ ”

“What did you say to me?”

“ _ Enough _ , you two!” 

“I didn’t even start anything!” Kageyama protests. He turns to Daichi, who merely gives him a stern look that speaks what words don’t say. Tsukishima relents, for now, slinking back to the wall to lean against as Kageyama growls his frustrations and tosses the ball to the floor.

The anger concentrating at the pit of his gut is one he’d learned to control over the past few months here at Karasuno. Whenever he feels the need to lash out the urge is dealt with accordingly; a moment to think about the consequences of his words, and a moment to calm. Today is not one of those days. Kageyama can’t remember the last time he wanted to fight someone until now.

“I’m going,” he says, loud enough for Daichi to hear but quiet enough for it not to be deemed a temper tantrum. A few heads turn to look from where they’re sitting among drink bottles, but no-body says anything. Kageyama tugs his shoes off by the heel and carries them to the door as he marches across the room. His socks squeak against the wax on the floor and it’s the only sound he can hear past the blood rushing to his ears and the utter silence from the team.

Then, in a flurry of movement, Hinata scrambles to sit up. “Kageyama, you can’t just run off and avoid diving drills!” He yowls, setting his drink to the side. He brushes his knees down and takes off after Kageyama, held back only by Sugawara’s fist twisted in the back of his shirt. He shakes his head mutely at Hinata as an only warning.

“Leave me alone!”

“No!” Hinata calls in return. “You’re being childish!”

“Fuck off!”

That does the trick. Hinata recoils in shock at the use of the expletive, and using that to his advantage, Kageyama takes off to the door. He slips his outside shoes on and braces the bitter autumn air with nothing but his training clothes. The wind bites his forearms and tears goosebumps from his skin but he powers on, even past the odd stares from other students in the courtyard. He’s halfway to the gate when he realises just what he’s done, and in a moment of regret he turns around to look back at the door of the gymnasium. 

Hinata leans against the doorway, watching him, shock written across every inch of his expression. The guilt of it all weighs down on the pit in his stomach. He hesitates before continuing out the gate. 

Kageyama walks home even though it takes him an hour. Mid-way through it begins to pick at raining but not until he’s a block away does it really begin hammering down. The soles of his shoes squelch with each step and the skin over his thighs is ruddy with cold water. By the time he reaches his house there’s a car in the driveway and a light on in the kitchen. He opens the door without greeting, and slams it behind him.

“Who’s there?” his mother calls from the kitchen. She pokes her head through the doorway, yellow rubber gloves pulled up to her elbows, and gapes in surprise at the sight she sees. “Tobio. Why aren’t you at school?”

“Felt ill,” he says, a part-lie part-truth, and makes a beeline for the stairs without meeting her gaze. She says nothing, be it in understanding or confusion, and watches him stomp up the stairs without another word. 

Kageyama pushes open the bathroom door without using the handle, kneels next to the toilet bowl, and throws up his breakfast. He draws in a trembling breath through his mouth as the rush of cold adrenaline tingles from his lips to his fingertips, pooling in his gut like he’s swallowed a pound of ice. The second wave of sickness hits and he throws up what’s left of lunch before he rises, flushes the bowl, and brushes his teeth.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror and sees the same, lost boy he was when he was thirteen and his grandfather was drying. He can still smell the roses and carnations tucked around the photo and casket. He can smell the church’s pews and mottled carpets. The pain of looking up to the bleachers and seeing an empty space where it was once filled is excruciating. Kageyama wonders if he’d be proud of him like his father never was. He doesn’t know the answer. 

* * *

Miyagi is damp and cool at night. Kageyama had considered gloves when he left the house but decided against because he likes to feel the ridges of the ball against the palm of his hand. He brought a hat, though, because his ears get cold before any other part of his body and he’d prefer not to catch a cold, thank you very much.

The streetlamps conceal some of the stars but it’s dark enough to see the pinprick of light that is Mars. He stares up at the sky; a bruised navy, and sets his ball back and forth to a tree that holds a rope swing. The ball breaks off bits of bark until the spot he’s been setting to is soft and smooth. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but judging by the purple skin of his fingers, he doesn’t have to guess that it’s been at least an hour. 

Unprovoked and unexpected, Hinata calls: “Kageyama!” tossing him a ball. He sees it a moment too late as it sails past, bouncing to a stop just a few feet away. The objects around him move in what feels like slow motion as he registers the bobbing orange curls peeking out from the lamp-post across the playground. “Set for me!”

He feels like he’s submerged beneath the ocean, trapped in a sinking cage, dropping heavier into high pressure and dark crevices. His eardrums feel fit to burst, and the tips of his fingers feel ice-cold. Hinata trots over to pick up the ball, ginger in his approach, though doing his best to appear confident. His nose is pink from the cold and his freckles pop with how pale his skin has drawn. With outstretched arms he holds the ball between them, and the one Kageyama had been setting rolls to the side, ignored.

“Set for me,” he repeats, demanding.

Kageyama blinks. “How did you know I was here?”

“Top secret!”

“Did you call my  _ mom _ _?_ ”

“Shh!” Hinata raises his finger, sensibly gloved, and hisses: “Be quiet! There are old people sleeping in the neighborhood!”

“Sorry,” Kageyama replies, lowering his voice only a touch. “I can’t believe you called my mom.”

“You wouldn’t pick up.” Kageyama hadn’t even considered that. He hasn’t looked at his phone for the past two days. Not since Friday. He has the decency to look guilty, which Hinata takes great delight in; the frown on his face softens. “You okay?”

“Why do you care?”

“You stormed off earlier like a diva!”

“A  _ diva? _ No, I didn’t!”

“You most certainly  _ did _ . You even strutted.”

“I  _ did not _ . You’re the dramatic one.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am  _ not. _ ”

“Are  _ too.” _

He snatches the ball from Hinata’s gloved hands without another word, and something twinkles behind those pale lashes of his. It eases the tightened knot between Kageyama’s ribs he’s been supporting for the last week in trepidation of his grandfather’s birthday, and he suddenly feels a little warmer. Without a word Hinata shifts backward and prepares to receive Kageyama’s set. 

They bounce the ball between them without conversation as the sounds of Miyagi surround them. A few teenagers across the road gossip about a classmate. A woman walks past with two little dogs. A couple pass them by on their bikes. Only when the streets grow quieter does Hinata speak, and even then it’s with hesitation. He’s treading eggshells, and it’s not hard to notice. “Why did you storm off earlier?” he asks, watching the ball’s arc with great curiosity. “It wasn’t because of Tsukishima, was it? ‘Cause you usually don’t rise up to it.”

“It might’ve been,” Kageyama replies, as equally interested in the ball’s aerodynamics as Hinata. “It’s easy to get annoyed with him.”

“It wasn’t, though. You weren’t there at lunch, Bakageyama-kun.” 

“Wasn’t hungry.”

“You weren’t at class, either.”

“Had to see my homeroom teacher.”

Hinata catches the ball, and when Kageyama looks up, he meets a frowning face. Hinata, with great commitment, says: “Suga-san says I should ask you, ‘cause bottling it up isn’t good. We’re like cans of soda, he says, and that if we’re shaken we’ve gotta ‘relieve the pressure’ before we burst.”

“That’s dumb.”

“Don’t say that about an upperclassmen!”

He shrugs. “Relieve the pressure sounds like you’re asking me to pee.”

“No. God, gross.” A sigh. Hinata’s gaze hardens. “I’m serious though. If there’s something bothering you, you should talk about it. No one’s bullying you, are they?”

“What? No.” Kageyama sizes up Hinata’s expression. He’s deadly serious, and Kageyama knows it. He opens his hands in gesture for the ball, and it’s tossed to him. He holds it between his palms and concentrates on the hexagonal ridges in the ball’s skin, thumbs tracing the pattern. What does he even say? Kageyama doesn’t know why it even matters. It  _ shouldn’t _ matter, but he wants to speak about it, even if he doesn’t know how to. They say nothing for a while until Kageyama speaks up: “My grandfather,” he says, and is surprised to hear the crack in his own voice. He clears his throat before continuing, albeit slower. “It was his birthday a few days ago.”

Hinata nods. “Is he…?”

“Yeah.”

“You silly goose,” Hinata chides, trotting over. The soft creases on his face deepen and twist. “Kageyama,” he repeats, “that’s reason enough to be sad. My nana passed when I was five and I still cry about it every now and again.”

“Sorry,” Kageyama says, “Sorry.”

The lump in his throat makes it hard to swallow and he can’t reach Hinata’s eyes. Where they’d ached from nights of staring up at the ceiling, unblinking, watching the patterns on his ceiling shift as the sun rises, they suddenly sting. Kageyama doesn’t register the tears pooling in his eyes until he suddenly can’t distinguish the blur of Hinata’s orange hair from the amber of the streetlamp’s glow. 

Hinata’s expression twists. The ball drops with a muted thud and rolls off to the side to join the other. 

Hinata thinks of Natsu when she’s fallen over and scraped her knee, or when his mother found the family cat passed away of old age in the garden, and reacts as he would when they cried. With clammy hands he reaches over to hook his arms around the skinny dip of Kageyama’s waist and holds him in an awkward hug.

“What are you doing,” Kageyama asks, spoken as more of a statement than a question, though it lacks bite. He’s saying it for the sake of filling the awkward silence.

“Hugging you.” Hinata shifts closer and hugs tighter. “Hug me back.”

“No.”

“Come on, it’ll make you feel better.”

“Gross.”

They shuffle, and Hinata holds him a little tighter. The long length of Kageyama’s body shudders, and up above, a shaky breath exhales white into the air. His arms, stiff as boards, shift beneath Hinata’s armpits and he holds him in what might be considered a pseudo-hug. He hopes Hinata realises this is his first time doing this with anyone outside his immediate family.

“Isn’t that better?” Hinata encourages, the own lines of his body relaxing. He feels the cold tip of his nose warm with their shared body heat.

“No. I hate it,” he replies, his own muscles softening to the touch, relaxing into the embrace.

“Silly Bakageyama. That’s what friends are for, right?”

Friends.  _ Friends. _ The notion hits him like a bulldozer, and he thinks he can feel a second wave of tears coming. It’s the first time he’s been referred to as a  _ friend _ , and with startling realisation he knows he isn’t alone anymore. 

He wonders if this is what his grandfather meant by a ‘stronger person’ because Kageyama knows he wouldn’t have the emotional strength to ever approach this with anyone else. Hinata is strong in ways he could never anticipate would beat his own strength, but the realisation doesn’t come with jealousy. It’s almost as if a missing puzzle piece has clicked. His arms tighten, and Hinata lets out a soft yawn against his chest. “Right,” he replies, honest, and feels the weight of finally being within someone’s company fill the loneliness in his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> ending is subject to change. thanks for reading. any and all comments are appreciated <3


End file.
